MARINO PULLED INTO my driveway early, at quarter of nine, because he wanted coffee and something to eat. He was officially not working, so he was dressed in blue jeans, a Richmond Police T-shirt, and cowboy boots that had lived a full life. He had slicked back what little hair had weathered his years, and he looked like an old beer-bellied bachelor about to take his woman to Billy Bob’s.

“Are we going to a rodeo?” I asked as I let him in.

“You know, you always have a way of pissing me off.”

He gave me a sour look that didn’t faze me in the least. He didn’t mean it.

“Well, I think you look pretty cool, as Lucy would say. I’ve got coffee and granola.”

“How many times do I got to tell you that I don’t eat friggin’ birdseed,” he grumbled as he followed me through my house.

“And I don’t cook steak-egg biscuits.”

“Well, maybe if you did, you wouldn’t spend so many evenings alone.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Did the Smithsonian tell you where we was going to park up there? Because there’s no parking in D.C.”

“Nowhere in the entire district? The President should do something about that.”

We were inside my kitchen, and the sun was gold on windows facing it, while the southern exposure caught the river glinting through trees. I had slept better last night, although I had no idea why, unless my brain had been so overloaded it simply had died. I remembered no dreams, and was grateful.

“I got a couple of VIP parking passes from the last time Clinton was in town,” Marino said, helping himself to coffee. “Issued by the mayor’s office.”

He poured coffee for me, too, and slid the mug my way, like a mug of beer on the bar.

“I figured with your Benz and those, maybe the cops would think we have diplomatic immunity or something,” he went on.

“I’m supposing you’ve seen the boots they put on cars up there.”

I sliced a poppyseed bagel, then opened the refrigerator door to take an inventory.

“I’ve got Swiss, Vermont cheddar, prosciutto.”

I opened another plastic drawer.

“And Parmesan reggiano—that wouldn’t be very good. No cream cheese. Sorry. But I think I’ve got honey, if you’d rather have that.”

“What about a Vidalia onion?” he asked, looking over my shoulder.

“That I have.”

“Swiss, prosciutto, and a slice of onion is just what the doctor ordered,” Marino happily said. “Now that’s what I call a breakfast.”

“No butter,” I told him. “I have to draw the line somewhere so I don’t feel responsible for your sudden death.”

“Deli mustard would be good,” he said.